Pregnancy Hormone Husband Torture
by njborba
Summary: A certain telepathic female mutant is pregnant and a certain optic blasting male mutant husband is not amused.


**Disclaimer:** I do not own any rights to _X-Men_, or its characters.

**Pregnancy Hormone Husband Torture  
**By  
N. J. Borba

_Pregnancy Hormone Husband Torture #7: Wake your husband up at all hours of the night making odd food craving requests…_

"Scott," I hear her calling me but I pretend not to, which, by the way, is not any easy thing to try and pull off with a telepathic wife. It involves a lot of lying very still and hoping like hell she won't go snooping around in your head. "Scott, are you awake?" she asks. Well yes, but I simple refuse to admit it. I keep my eyes closed, though, thankfully with the ruby quartz glasses I wear all the time, she can never really tell if they're open or not.

She's quiet for a few minutes and I think it's actually safe to drift back to sleep. Except for the fact that now I'm very much awake and can't seem to calm my mind enough for sleep to return. I hunker down further into the soft quilt and decide to count down my mental list of pregnancy hormone husband tortures. It's almost as good as the sheep counting method that some use.

Let's see, number one was making sure that no one, and I mean no one, cooked bacon in the mornings. Because just the tiniest whiff of it was enough to send her rushing off to the toilet or nearest vessel suitable for massive quantities of… well, I'm sure you can guess. Those were the first few glorious weeks after we discovered that Jean was carrying our little mutant buddle of hormonal torture… I mean, joy!

Number two was, um… what was number two? Oh yes! Being present at said toilet sessions for the sole purpose of holding her hair back. This sort of falls into the same category as number one since they went very much hand in hand. But it was a pretty awful chore so I figured I'd give it its own number. I like to think of myself as a sensitive guy and all, but after weeks on end of this torture, I was ready to shave my dear wife's head and call it a day.

This brings us to number three; more issues with food. Food seems to be a very LARGE part of the pregnancy hormone husband torture list. Just keep reading. Number three though, very cruel. See, my dear sweet wife is a vegetarian. Has been since she was about sixteen. Won't eat a speck of meat. Nothing with a face, she claims. But around about month three, you guessed it, she started craving meat! And her grand solution to this dilemma? She decided that _I_ would stop eating meat for the rest of _her_ pregnancy so that she could eat meat and no more cows would be hurt in the process. Such logic! I think she got the idea from an episode of _Friends_ that she and Rogue were watching one night.

Number four? Mood swings. Female mutant telepathic pregnancy hormone induced mood swings. Really, need I say more?

Number five I recall had something to do with me not understanding what it could possibly be like to carry around a five pound sack of potatoes that sits on your bladder and never lets you sleep properly and makes you have to get up and excuse yourself to the bathroom several times a day and feel big and ugly and just plain gross! I'm thinking this was just a by product of mood swings but I gave it its own number because of the shear amount of breath it took her to get all of that out in one sentence.

And number six had to do with chocolate. Sounds easy enough. Pregnant lady craves chocolate. Kind, sweet, adoring husband supplies chocolate. Nobody gets hurt. Wrong! See, there are many different kinds of chocolate in this world. Many, many, many different kinds. Some had too many nuts, some not enough. A few were not dark enough, a few were too dark and bitter tasting. Marshmallows and chocolate are a no-no. But caramel and nougat of any kind with chocolate is a good thing. Believe me, the rules in regard to pregnancy chocolate cravings are numerous beyond belief!

Which brings us back to the present…

"Scott!" she shouts my name this time and my eyes snap open. That one certainly got my attention. I glance over at her with curiosity and suddenly something dawns on me. Oh crap! I just realized how close we are to the due date. Only about three weeks actually and apparently first babies are always early. She could blow at any time.

"What is it?" I finally ask. "Is this it? Is it time?" I actually leap out of the bed, jumping all around like some crazy nut that is not prepared for fatherhood. I grab the blue sweat pants that were draped over the end of the bed and hurriedly pull them on. I look for the bag we had packed even though we're just going down a sublevel to have the darn kid.

"No, Scott. It's not time," she calmly informs me as she casually leans against the headboard. Well, I think… in that case, someone had better be dead. You do not wake someone up like that if it isn't vitally important. Okay, so technically I wasn't asleep. But she really doesn't need to know that fine point.

"If it's not time then why did you just feel the need to wake me up at…" I squint my eyes as I gaze over at the alarm clock that's resting on my nightstand. "Three o'clock in the morning?" I finish as I read the digital display. My body collapses back onto the bed in a heap. I don't care that I'm lying on top of the covers. I could fall asleep very easily right where I just landed.

"Ice cream," the two words roll off her tongue and impale my brain.

I turn my weary head to look over at her and sigh. She has this sweet, innocent look on her face and I try so very hard to fight it. I try with every morsel of restraint in my body. But I don't stand a chance. I never stand a chance with her. I cave and smile back at her. "Of course," I reply. "What kind?" I ask.

"Vanilla," she tells me.

Seems my luck has changed for once. This I know we have a steady supply of in the freezer. It's the most common of ice cream choices and quite simple enough to alter with various toppings. Plenty of variety to be had by the throngs of young mutants in the school. "That's easy enough," I happily inform her.

"With caramel sauce," I hear her add. I knew it couldn't be that simple. But still, caramel sauce is not a big deal. I nod my head as I resume a sitting position. I'm still a few minutes away from standing again. "And mustard," my stomach drops at this last request.

A hand clamps down over my mouth and I fear she may need to help hold my hair back as I toss my cookies in the nearest toilet. "You have got to be joking," I manage to squeeze the words from my appalled lips. I turn around and stare at her for a long moment, thinking perhaps she has been replaced by a pod person from another planet. "You don't even like mustard," I inform her.

She looks at me with another one of those innocent, puppy dog faces. Her shoulders shrug as she points to her rounded belly. "It's not me, it's the baby," she maintains.

And how can I possible argue with that? I can't. "Okay," I sigh as I pull myself up into a standing position. I lean up against one of the posts on our bed. "Vanilla ice cream with caramel sauce and…" I can't quite bring myself to say the word.

"Mustard," she supplies it for me.

"Right, just double checking," I reply.

"Thanks Hon, you're the best," she tells me as she settles back under the warm quilt. I look at the comfy bed longingly but quickly force myself to stop my lament. I know that the sooner I go about my husbandly duties, the sooner I can get back into that warm bed and finally return to the blissful land of sleep where there are no hormonally imbalanced mutant wives.

"No problem," I mumble as I take my leave of the room.

xXx

"What the hell are you doing down here?" my fingers clench down tightly on the scooper and the bit of ice cream I had curled on the device jumps out of the carton and onto the counter.

"Jeez, Logan!" I exclaim. "Do not sneak up like that on sleep deprived pregnancy hormone tortured husbands," I complain as I pick up the ice cream and drop it into Jean's bowl. I figure the counter is plenty clean and besides that, she'll never know. I can hear the chuckle in his voice even before he speaks again.

"A little snack for Jean, eh?" he asks in an amused tone.

I want to slap the smug little sideburns right off his face. But I have a better plan. "Yep, just a little vanilla ice cream," I inform him before dropping my bomb. "With caramel sauce and mustard," I see his face go pale as the realization of my words sinks in. Ah, the sweet satisfaction of victory. "So, what are you doing down here at this hour, Logan?" I casually ask.

"Well," I can see him eyeing the bottle of mustard on the counter. "I was hungry," he finally replies.

I can't help but laugh out loud. Tough as nails Wolverine, squeamish about a little midnight snack. It was almost worth being woken up in the middle of the night for. But only almost. I finish up with the ice cream, stow the carton back in the freezer then grab the caramel sauce. I pour a goodly amount of the light brownish treat over the ice cream. Then I eye the bottle of mustard. I glance back at the bowl of ice cream and wonder how I could possibly destroy such a beautiful creation.

"You know what, I think I'll just take her the mustard separately," I declare as I grab the bottle and tuck it into the waste band of my sweat pants. I see Logan watching me with a snarky remark twitching on the tip of his tongue. "You know, just to let her decide how much she wants," I add, trying to hide my disgust at the idea of mustard on ice cream. Even for my own child I could never stomach it.

"Wimp," Logan responds to my claim.

My head lowers slightly and I sigh in defeat as I edge toward the kitchen door. I look back over my right shoulder at him. "In this, yes," I finally cave before dredging back up to our room.

xXx

"Jean," I whisper her name as I stand over our bed with a bowl of ice cream and a plastic bottle of mustard stuffed in my pants. I seriously could not write a comedy routine more laughable than this night. "Honey, are you awake?" I ask. She damned well better be awake after what I just went through.

A loud snoring sound is my only response. She's not awake. Well, shit! I scramble over to my side of the bed, remove the mustard from my sweat pants and place in on the night stand by our bed. I fling back the covers and climb into the warm bed, savoring the soft comfort of the quilt. Then I realize that there's still a bowl of vanilla ice cream with caramel sauce in my hands. And it's melting.

I look over at my softly snoring wife and sigh. Then I take the spoon, lump a large helping of ice cream onto it and stick it in my mouth. If I can't have sleep, might as well have ice cream. I take several move bites, wondering how my life had been reduced to late night snack retrieval. Don't get me wrong, I adore my wife. I would do anything for her and I can't wait to see the little guy when he gets here but, you have to admit. This is pretty pathetic.

It was about to get even more pathetic too as I glanced over and spotted the bottle of mustard that was sitting on the table beside me. I contemplated it for a minute or two until curiosity got the better of me. I reached over and grabbed the bottle, flipped the lid and squeezed a small drop of it onto the spoonful of ice cream I already had scooped up. I looked at it for a second and then shoved it all into my mouth.

The horrid concoction came spitting out a second later as I swiped at my mouth with my hand. The spoon dropped into the bowl and I abandoned what was left of the cool treat. I snuggled down deeper into the cocoon of blankets and glanced over at my wife. "Maybe it's a good thing you feel asleep," I mumbled before closing my eyes and praying for a few winks before the sun rose.

xXx

I woke up knowing that I was being scrutinized. One eye opened and then the other slowly followed. She was leaning over me. "Why were you eating ice cream in our bedroom in the middle of the night? And what is up with the bottle of mustard?" I heard her ask in an accusing manner. My mouth hangs open for a minute or two, unable to speak.

"You mean you don't remember waking me up last night and requesting vanilla ice cream with caramel sauce and mustard?" I ask in disbelief.

She looks at me like I've lost my damned mind. "You're joking right?" she scoffs at me. "I hate mustard! You must have been dreaming," she insists as she removes herself from the bed and waddles her way toward the bathroom.

"But you… I…" oh, what was the use? I knew it was pointless to try and argue with her. It would only cause me further headache. I slap my hands over my head and cradle my poor tortured mind. "Pregnancy hormone husband torture number eight," I mumble to myself. "Forgetting late night requests and convincing husband that he's just dreaming all these crazy things up!"

End-


End file.
